


Blood Will Have Blood

by novak



Series: Tasty Boyfriends [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:32:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novak/pseuds/novak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Basically, I'm going to create a series of these little Will/Hannibal ficlets, all relating back to this original post. </p><p>Alternate ending for Apéritif; alternate progression for the rest of the show.</p></blockquote>





	Blood Will Have Blood

Blood is so thick. 

Will’s hands are covered in it, slippery with the stuff, all crimson-red and wet. It’s flecked across his glasses, obscuring his view with decidedly morbid droplets. Sprayed across his cheek in the mist that comes with pulling the trigger of a firearm ten times, emptying a round into the chest of another man without mercy, without thought.  
Hannibal watches, calm and collected, while Will’s panic ratchets itself up notch after notch, lightning fast and dangerous. He’s not sure whether saving Abigail Hobbs or cupping Will’s face and telling him it will be all right will be the more effective method of soothing him. 

He decides on saving the girl, after a second more of pondering. 

He swoops in on the gore, something he’s seen so many times and something he still longs for, brushing Will’s clumsy, shaking hands out of the way and cupping his own around the girl’s throat, effectively stifling the bleeding while the sirens of an ambulance begin to wail like ghouls. Will sits back on his haunches and whatever colour is left in his face drains downwards and the gleam disappears from his eyes.  
Will looks at him and Hannibal knows that glassy-eyed, deer-in-headlights look. Pale-faced, slack-mouthed, Will Graham is at the peak of his terror, thrown far from his comfort zone like one of the tennis balls he flings for his dogs to chase on a brisk winter’s morning.

-

They’re back in Hannibal’s office. They sit comfortably across from one another, Hannibal patiently waiting, cool and calculating, while Will grinds his teeth and picks at the dried blood lurking under his fingernails.  
He won’t forget that, he knows; he won’t be able to forget the way Abigail’s blue eyes rolled back into her skull, the way blood _spurted_ from her cut throat like it didn’t belong in her veins anymore. He remembers the feel of it between his fingers, the viscous slip and slide of it, and he feels nauseous when he looks down at the remnants clinging to his cuticles. Hannibal gets up from his chair with a quiet creak and Will doesn’t respond, eyes downcast, tweaking the blood-tainted skin around his nail beds.  
When Hannibal returns, he places a small foam cup of water on the coffee table between them before seating himself once more. Will looks at it, and then at Hannibal; he feels like a child.

Hannibal has already rescued him today, and now he’s making sure Will eats, making sure he stays hydrated, and what makes him feel even more ridiculous is the knowledge that he certainly wouldn’t be able to do it for himself, not in this state. Certainly not in this state. Hannibal has even called one of his neighbours and politely asked if they could feed Will’s dogs for him; he is staying with Hannibal tonight. It’s late, Will is in no shape to drive him, and he will not accept Hannibal’s offer to take him home. It’s a three-hour return trip; he can’t expect Hannibal to do that. Not when he’s already done so much for him. 

Not when he’s going to do so much for him. 

Hannibal was there for him today, when he stopped functioning when confronted with Abigail and her psychotic father, when he saw Garrett Jacob Hobbs hurl his dying wife through the front door like she was nothing more than a malfunctioning ragdoll. He still doesn’t understand how human beings can do such things to one another but on an entirely different level he _does_. 

He takes the water and sips from it quietly, eyes on the rim of the cup or on the edge of the table. Always down, and never towards Hannibal, because he feels as though he’s taking too much and giving too little. He doesn’t know how to say thank you, he doesn’t know if he _should_ say thank you, and opts to stay quiet for a few minutes more. 

He finally looks up, like he thinks Hannibal might be distracted, that he might be thinking that he needs to dust the upstairs bookshelf (he doesn’t; Hannibal’s office is immaculate, as always), and his timid gaze is met by the psychiatrist’s.  
He tries not to shy away, he tries not to splutter on his water, and he succeeds. He remains professionally steadfast, expression measured, feigning a sense of calm. He places the cup down when it is empty and Hannibal moves to refill it, only to settle again when Will tersely shakes his head. He leans forwards to rest his elbows on the tops of his knees, studying Doctor Lecter with all the intensity of a hungry owl. 

Hannibal doesn’t bat an eyelash underneath such scrutiny. 

“Thank you,” Will finally says, and Hannibal’s lips curl into a quiet smile, pleased that he did not have to urge the young man into breaking his silence.  
“I did nothing spectacular, Will. I was merely stepping in when you required assistance.” His voice is as smooth as velvet. Will closes his eyes, takes his glasses off with one hand and rubs across the tense lines in his forehead with the other, wondering why he’s not allowed to sit and listen to Hannibal talk for hours on end instead of venturing into the torturous world that is profiling serial killers. It would certainly put an end to his increasingly unpleasant insomnia. 

He licks his lips, replaces his glasses, and begins fidgeting now with the cuff of his plaid shirt in favour of the brownish-red of blood etched into the loose skin of his knuckles. “Still,” he mutters, staring down at the carpet, “Thank you for your hospitality.” 

“It is the least I can do.” Hannibal moves to begin packing his things; they’re done here. Hannibal’s stomach is beginning to growl and he hopes it isn’t audible as he catches Will’s gaze from where he’s shuffling documents into his briefcase. He smiles, slowly, and asks, “Tell me, Will: do you enjoy breakfast-for-dinner?” 

His smile grows when the ‘special agent’ nods.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I'm going to create a series of these little Will/Hannibal ficlets, all relating back to this original post. 
> 
> Alternate ending for Apéritif; alternate progression for the rest of the show.


End file.
